The Columbian. [volume] (Bloomsburg, Pa.) 1866-1910, 1887-03-11

7 o'cioCk."
81 shall require no train"
"But how, then, will you go?n
Again he bursts into that loud dis
cordant laughter that chills the blood in
her veins.
"Do not be uneasy about me. have
prepared for mysels mode Of transit
swifter than any train. Pouf! Steam
will be slow to it."
"You do not trust me-" she says sor-
rowfully, still unsuspecting, still dead to
the warning that his words, his face, his
manner, should have given her.
trust you entirely. I trust you with
my last message-to heri Now 60"
81 shall see you again'" entreats she,
lingering.
~ hope notl I hope from my soul
notr'
For the first time his composure seems
to desert him. lie grows CHASTITY pale,
and fit of shivering seizes upon him.
"You are ill-you are sufferingp' cries
his mother quickly.
"No. 1t is nothing. Only gol
must be alone for awhile, and my time is
short. Good-by.
STOPPING, he presses his lips to her fore
head.
"For the momentp" she answers anx-
iously.
"Good-by."
There is no denial of her question in his
manner, and she is fain to be content
with 1t. She clings to him, and embraces
him warmly; an embrace he returns in
kind. She moves as if to leave him. AL
most as she reaches the door, his voice
stops her.
zone wordn he says huskily. "Do
not-do not be unkind to herl When 1
am gone, do not show or feel resentment
toward herr'
He makes her sign with his hand to
declare he has said all he had called her
to hear, and )ing out, she closes the door
behind her.
The sound of her retreating footsteps
has died away. He is alonel He stretches
out his arms YEARLY, as one might who
has just flung from him some cruel bur-
den, and drawing back the curtains, opens
wide the window and gazes out upon the
growing day. Already the sun has
mounted the heavens, and from the ea 1t
soft rosy bars of tremulous light are de-
scending upon the distant hill tops From
among the laurels comes the thrilling
music of innumerable birds; from the
wood the cooling of the gentle pigeons.
A rose that has climbed up the wall, more
ambitious than its fellows, thrusts its
scented petals into his hand.
Mechanically he accepts the gift, and
breaking the flower from its stem, inhales
| its perfume 1t is sweet with dew, and
| sweet as only morning rose can be, with
| all the cool moisture Of the dead past
| night still on it, and buried in its heart.
| Boyle, still as If without thought, having
| trifled with the flower, carries it to q table
and mi hia hand tpNpar6 a
| filled with water. The action rouses him.
| He checks himself, and after brief
| pause filings the flower upon the ground.
| He had been about to place 1t in the
| water with view to its preservation
| when that revulsion of feeling came over
him. To save it from instant destruction
why That he might see it upon the
morrow The morrow Where will he
be them
He sets his heel upon the flower and
crushes it out of all loveliness. Death is
rushing ward him on swift black wings
shall that senseless flower be sparedt
1t is very poor, very paltry bit Of
malice, yet it n erves him. and brings him
again face to face with his indomitable
resolve.
| Crossing the room, he opens case
lying upon bureau and draws from it a
revolver. He runs his hand lightly over
it, and the cool touch of the steel seems
| to steady him. Having assured himself
that it is loaded, he lays it down again
and turns to n writing table.
His hand is firm, the writing bold as
ever. A few words, explaining where the
famous sapphires (now dismantled and
unset may be found in his rooms in town,
are addressed to his mother. Bold words,
with no endearing commencement, no af-
fectionate termination. To him the sap
phires are of no further use. 1t is as well
that Millicent should have them again.
He filings the pen aside, and, rising to
his feet, PAGES hurriedly up and down the
room. He can walk now. But like q
flash it bursts upon him that soon move.
ment will be impossible. There upon the
carpet he lies like stick-a stone! The
great grand fever Of living is tearing
through his veins. His pulses throb, his
heart beats-there are years of life within
the tall, slender, firmly built frame tina,
looks its last through the open window
The early morning air, fresh and fragrant
rushes gayly in. Heavensl how fair the
world is! Was it ever so fair as today
He takes up the revolver again and lifts
it to his mouth. There is short hesita
tion. His mind travels backward Hi:
brain reels. There !-therel she is be
| ioic nm again a iOlul, ClOlllcN
all in palest blue. A face divinel Hel
lovely armsl Her eyes-dark-liquid
See, now, they CLEAN for-Duran! Ours,
him! To him she holds out her hands
To him she gives herself She turns
A groan of agonized remembrance,
bursts from his lips. Then follows 1
sharp report 1t rings through the house
He sways, and a corpse, disfgured in
horrible manner, falls heavily to tn,
ground All is over.
Through the window the light breez
enters merrily, and floating downward
lifts the hair that is still unwet, from th
dead mans head, and softly, delicately
plays with it. There is only the breeze
All other motion is gone. So intense i
the silence that reigns within the cham
Der, that a tiny bird, emboldened by ii
perches on the sill of the window, an,
breaks forth into morning carol, lou,
and shrill. A carol! A requiem rather
And now the silence is broken. Through
the passages beyond comes the sound o
hurrying feet. There is one that runs be
fore the Others Nearer, nearer they come
and still the bird carols, the wind plays
the dead man lies there, careless-un
knowing.
touch upon the handle of the door
The wind still revels In lifeless tresses
but the bird has flown away. The doc
opens
Upon the threshold stands--his mother
| THE END